Strange Bedfellows
by Myriddin
Summary: Jon/Sansa. Married at Daenerys' behest, Sansa and Jon take a chance and open up to one another on their wedding night. ONESHOT.


**Strange Bedfellows**  
By Myriddin

_I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire. A Song of Ice and Fire is the property of George R.R. Martin and Bantam Books, and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only. _****

**Author's Notes: This monstrosity started months ago. I love the arranged marriage trope used so often with Jon/Sansa where they're awkward and formal and all "can't spit it out". I tried to write my own, but it grew into this, the opposite where Sansa and Jon open up to one another from the get-go. Thus in resulted 11 pages of romantic smut with tons of emotion and reflection in between. **

The silence that occurred after the door to the bedchambers shut behind the drunken, giggling participants of their bedding ceremony was stifling, the tension felt palpably by Jon Targaryen as he glanced warily at the room's other occupant. She was standing beside the bed, looking so impossibly vulnerable, younger than her years in the way she had her arms wrapped defensively around herself. She was clad only in a thin shift, her head down and shoulders hunched in a way that had Jon's heart in his throat and his fists clenching. There was something in her posture he had seen too much of in Craster's women to dismiss it as merely nerves. That realization was enough to have him nauseous and near-trembling with rage.

Gods, he felt sick. Jon's hands tightened until the knuckles were stark white and he gritted his teeth, taking in a deep breath as he struggled to calm himself. He exhaled sharply, shocking himself when he managed to keep his voice level as he softly said her name. "Sansa."

Sansa raised her head at the sound of his voice, blue eyes wide and full of emotion, wariness, resignation, and even a strange touch of hopeful relief. He swallowed, trying his utmost to push aside his feelings of being a stud put out to pasture, and instead focus on at least managing conversation. "Are you well? Did anyone mistreat you?"

She shook her head. "No. Uncle Brynden was there."

He nodded, relieved at the mention of the Blackfish. He would have watched over his grandniece, shielding her from groping hands and too-inappropriate japes. They'd been married at Riverrun, a compromised midpoint between the Eyrie and King's Landing, as Winterfell still lay in ruins and it would be cruel to force Sansa to face the Red Keep again.

The 'family' portion of the Tully house words were still alive and true, in the protective way Ser Brynden had taken to practically becoming her shadow, to the sad, haunted eyes of Lord Edmure who sometimes looked at his niece as if seeing a ghost, but still treated her warmly and took her counsel to heart. At least, Jon thought he was, as the older man had danced with his wife more than once at the feast, and might have even smiled at her. Sansa had been working on helping to heal that rift since she had arrived, for a myriad of reasons not just including familial affection.

The longer Lord Edmure was absent from his wife's bed over his distrust for her Frey blood, the longer the Riverlands went without an heir, after the harsh winter had taken their firstborn daughter. Making Sansa the current heir presumptive to the Riverlands, as well as Lady of Winterfell, which along with her ties to the Vale, gave her the potential to control nearly half the realm. Daenerys was not pleased, despite Sansa's earnest desire for nothing but Winterfell.

Jon knew for a fact that his aunt respected and even liked Sansa, but politics took precedent and the Queen utilized the best way to tie Sansa and the three realms behind her to the Iron Throne. By marrying her to House Targaryen.

Better him, he had since tried to convince himself. Better him than his brother. Sansa deserved attention, affection and respect, things that could not be fully allotted by Aegon, who, despite his decent nature, already had two wives and was a notorious womanizer. His Martell and Tyrell queens may not pay his dalliances any mind, but Jon would not allow his sister-cousin to be subjected to that kind of humiliation.

He felt ill again, aching and potent, nerves twisting his stomach every which way until he felt relieved he drank only water at the feast. He had previously regretted his sobriety, but now felt it was a blessing. Sicking up on his wedding night before his new bride would likely be more detrimental to both their confidences than any previous history could be.

She offered him a tentative smile and relief flooded through him. He dared to take a step forward then, freezing immediately when she backed away in response. Hurt clouded his expression, evident to her despite his efforts to hide it. Sansa winced, her guilt only growing when he picked up a light fur blanket from the bed and settled it around her shoulders. She grasped the ends of the coverlet, pulling it closer around her.

"Jon, I'm sorry. It's not you, I promise. It's..."

"I know," he acknowledged with a wan smile, looking away. Sansa took the moment to look at him. He was clean-shaven, his dark hair cut several inches shorter than that morning at what was likely Daenerys' insistence. She was relieved in a way; he much less resembled the ghost of Ned Stark he'd seemed when they reunited. At the same time, he also scarcely looked like the boy, the half-brother, she had known. He had been through so much, she acknowledged as her eyes tracing over the scars littering his torso. They both had.

She hesitantly stepped closer, lightly resting her hand against the side of his face. Jon leaned into the touch, gray eyes warm as they met hers. Sansa gave him a full, genuine smile, letting her fingers stroke his cheek and trace along the line of his jaw.

"Jon, can we truly do this?"

Jon deeply inhaled, slowing breathing out before reaching up to frame her face in his hands. "Sansa, do you trust me?"

"I do." It warmed him to realize there wasn't a moment of hesitation to her response, her smile still present as she rested her hands over his.

Slowly, gently, with the most care he had shown anything in his life, Jon kissed her.

Sansa trembled against him and his arms encircled her, holding her in a loose embrace she could break away from with ease if she so chose. But it was Sansa who initiated the next kiss, firmer and more insistent than his own. Jon was delighted.

"Jon," she whispered as they broke apart, "May I ask something of you?"

"Of course." He cradled the back of her neck, stroking his thumb across her lips, rosy from their kiss. "Anything, Sansa."

Sansa looked down, endearing color staining her cheeks. Three times wedded now, and dutifully bedded during the second, wording her request to him still left her blushing and nervous as a maiden. But here, in Jon's arms, she felt safe for the first time in years, and she let that feeling summon the courage to find her candor.

"I...I know there are expectations to be fulfilled tonight, but I have been told..." She trailed off, continuing on at his encouraging nod. "I've been told there is pleasure to be had for a woman in the marital bed. I was hoping...you could help me find it."

Jon stared at her blankly, incredulously for a drawn-out moment before he could find his words. "You...Hardyng didn't...?"

He immediately thought himself dumb as an aurochs the moment she dropped her eyes from his. He was silently cursing himself when she softly, but firmly, asserted, "I did my duty."

"But it seems he didn't do his." And if her earlier reaction was anything to go by, Hardyng hadn't just neglected her pleasure when he came to her bed. Jon found himself wishing for the first time that Harry Hardyng was still living, just so he could have the pleasure of gutting the thrice-damned whoreson himself. He allowed himself a brief indulgence of imagining that if Robb was still alive, they would make a good team in doing just that.

But then, he thought with a grimace, Robb would not be pleased either knowing Jon would be sharing Sansa's bed He shook his head, pushing away the thought of Robb, and the reminder of the _wrongdirtybad _feelings of guilt he had been fighting the past sennight since his aunt and queen had asked (ordered) for the marriage to happen.

Sansa caught his distraction, and the hand still cupping his face drew his head down to bring his mouth back to hers. Jon splayed his hands against her back to pull her flush against him, responding with a gentle but ardent passion no woman since Ygritte had managed to stir in him.

She slowly opened to him, deepening the contact, and she was pliant, warm and utterly alive against him. With gentle coaxing, she was wonderfully responsive as he lifted her to him, her arms linking around his neck and legs draping around his hips. He settled her on the bed, following immediately after as Sansa kept a tight hold on him.

Jon chuckled, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "Easy, sweetling. I want to please you, but you'll have to let me loose."

Though a bit embarrassed as she realized how tightly she was clinging to him, this time she did not shy away. Instead, she relaxed beneath him, pointedly holding his gaze with a bearing that spoke of confidence and security, once again the woman he had cloaked in Targaryen colors. She was the Lady of Winterfell, the uncrowned Queen in the North, the Winter Rose of House Stark, while still maintaining the warmth and vulnerability of Sansa the woman. This was his wife, the woman he was privileged and humbled to be spending the rest of his life with, with whom he would restore Winterfell, make a home, raise children, rule the North beside.

He sifted his fingers through her hair, releasing the binds of her braids to allow the silken curls to tumble haphazardly around her shoulders. His fingers brushed against her skin and she shivered, Jon leaning down to press a kiss to her neck, nudging aside her shoulder strap to continue trailing kisses across his skin. It was Sansa who gently pushed him back just long enough to pull her shift over her head, casting it aside as she returned to his embrace.

Their eyes met once more, Jon searching for any discomfort at his ministrations. Sansa looped her arms around his neck, leaning up on her knees to be of level height with him, seeking his approval. His gaze roamed over her, darkening with his appreciation. She was silken milk-white skin and coltish limbs, shapely curves and full breasts capped by rosy little tips. Her mouth was full and sensuous, and over the past fortnight since they had been reunited, he had heard the most delightful combination of dry wit and wisdom beyond her years fall from it.

The light smattering of freckles on her body was a pleasant discovery, and he imagined spending an idle day in bed where he spent a lazy afternoon mapping them out with his lips and tongue. Her eyes were deep wells of blue, feathered by thick lashes that were the prettiest he'd ever seen on a girl. And what was this woman doing to him, that he could focus on such small details like her eyelashes and be utterly besotted with them?

She was perfect and he whispered as much, loving the rosy tint that came to her cheeks in response. This woman, this wonderful woman, was everything he could ever want, and Jon, heart full and mind racing, surrendered to his fate (it wasn't a bad fate, really). Knowing he couldn't yet express in words everything he wanted to say, he let his body do the talking for him.

He did not have a multitude of experience to draw on, but he was by nature a considerate lover, and it showed through in his gentle kisses and careful caresses, seeking not only to arouse her body but to comfort and soothe as well. He kept his hands and lips constantly at work, keeping up a slow, steady pace until she forgot anything and everything but him.

His hand stroked her hip, silently reassuring as he continued on, his lips a sweet burn against her skin as they closed over a breast. He circled his tongue around a peppled nipple, gently suckling. He delighted in the heightened pitch of her breath, the way she subtly arched her body into his. Spurred on by her reactions, he bit down, harder than intended in his enthusiasm.

"Ouch! Jon!"

Jon's head shot up at the cry, giving her a sheepish look. Sansa smiled to assure, tangling her fingers in his hair and giving the tresses a light tug in encouragement. He returned to the task at hand, soothing his tongue over the reddened skin. He reached up to give her other breast a gentle squeeze, brushing his thumb over an areole hardening under his touch. Soft, airy moans spilled from her mouth, punctuating the air and Sansa whispered his name, her voice thick and hazy.

The moment she rolled her hips against his, Jon's mind almost stopped working all together. He blinked, nuzzling her neck as he breathed in the sweet scent of her, sharply exhaling as the jumbled pieces of his brain fell back into place and realigned. Feeling the absence of his touch, her eyes fluttered open to lock on his.

Jon swallowed as he moved to hook his fingers in the thin material of her small-clothes, looking at her in question. Sansa nodded her assent, allowing him to finally bare her down to nothing. He caught a look at her sex, copper curls glistening with wetness, before she clamped her legs shut, shifting slightly away. He didn't comment on the change, instead accommodating her move by rolling onto his side to face her.

They eyed each other for a long, pregnant pause before she reached for him, placing a hand over his heart. She could feel the strong, steady beating, the crisp dark hair dusting his chest tickling her fingers as she began to explore. Jon was long and lean, wiry muscles tight and taut beneath his pale skin. He was quite handsome, her husband, his dour Northern features feeling like home to the woman Sansa was now when the girl of the past had felt them something to escape.

Most of all, it was the kindness in his winter-gray eyes that drew her close to him once more, more than the want and the heat, though they were deciding factors as well as she wrapped her arms around him, drawing him to her until she lay back with Jon resting over her once more.

He slid a hand between her thighs, the abundant wetness he found there coating his fingers as he explored. He groaned, a deep, rumbling sound that almost sounded as if he was in pain. "Gods, Sansa, you're so wet!"

Sansa was mortified to find she was again blushing. "Is…is that bad?"

Jon stared at her. She fidgeted under his stare before he finally blinked and sighed, rubbing his knuckles across her cheek. "It's good, Sansa. It's very good. So you've never…"

She shook her head.

He growled to himself, mumbling several choice insults against her previous husband- the dead one, she and Tyrion got along swimmingly now that they weren't bound by marriage- including "selfish shit" and "empty-headed arse."

Sansa couldn't help herself, she laughed. Her husband looked at her wryly and pounced on her- there really wasn't another word for it. Her squeal of surprise was swallowed by his lips covering hers. He kissed her deeply, almost obscenely as he swept his tongue into her mouth and pressed his body flush against hers. The stiff hardness in his small-clothes left little doubt to his desire, accelerating hers as he ground against her center.

Her hips rose to meet him as she realized the movements meant something good in response to the longing ache between her legs. He growled in approval, rocking against her once more. She mewled in pleasure at the friction caused, with every undulation of his hips and the continuous graze of his coarse chest hair against her sensitive nipples.

They continued on for several moments, and it was with herculean effort that Jon stilled his hips, grasping Sansa's chin to get her attention. Sansa stared at him, flushed, panting, and beautifully wanton. He stroked her cheek, brushing his thumb along her kiss-swollen lips. She took his finger into her mouth, lightly sucking at the tip and his lusty groan again reverberated between them.

"I haven't much experience to draw from." Jon pointedly did not think about Ygritte, dead by practically his own hand; Val who had laughed in his face when he asked her to come south and become his wife; the Red Witch, who sought to seduce him for the royal blood in his veins. "But I know there's more than a man sinking his cock into a woman and putting a babe in her belly. Any man who could come to your bed with only that intention is a thrice-damned fool."

Her breath hitched as feeling overwhelmed her, his words leaving her speechless. Affection for the man before her filled her so completely, she responded to her sudden yearning to have him close instantly and without a trace of her usual caution. She reached for him, and something of her longing must have shown on her face, because Jon was quick to react by drawing her into his arms.

She snuggled closer into the embrace she was grateful he would give her, one more of care and comfort, untainted by the minutes before despite the evident arousal she could still feel against her hip. Jon seemed entirely willing to ignore it as long as it took to tend to her, and she loved him for that, for she had loved him when he was her brother, however poorly she may have shown it.

She had loved the boy, and for the man, it was appreciation, gratitude, respect and attraction working together to form a fledgeling but firm base of feeling she knew would only grow. She nuzzled into the crook between his neck and shoulder, savoring his warmth and breathing him in. He smelled of the North- of home, of pine and snow- and she sighed contently.

"Jon..."

"Hmm?" he hummed thoughtfully, pressed a light kiss to her forehead.

The affectionate gesture drew a smile from her. "I need you to know something," she whispered, lips warm and soft as they brushed softly against his neck as she spoke, and Jon shivered though he gave her his utmost attention. "I need you to know I'm sorry."

His brow crinkled with puzzlement. "Sorry? Sansa, what could you possibly have to be sorry for?"

She raised her head and her eyes were wet. Jon immediately cupped her cheek in concern. "Sansa?"

"Before..." she started hesitantly, swallowing back tears before she continued, "When we were young. The way I treated you...Jon, I'm so sorry."

"Sansa, it's long been forgotten."

Sansa shook her head, resting a hand over the one on her cheek. "It shouldn't be. Not entirely. When I thought you were my brother, I should have acted like it. I should have respected you, treasured you-" She shook her head when Jon opened his mouth to protest. "Because you were family. Even if you were only half my brother, you were still my blood. Part of me. I should have realized that."

"Sansa, we were only children," he said soothingly, wiping away an escaping tear with the pad of his thumb.

"I know. But what I'm trying to say, Jon, is that even if we aren't brother and sister anymore," she gave a pointed look at their naked states to indicate just how much that lack of status changed between them. Jon huffed out a husky laugh. "There's one thing that's still the same."

"They might call you a dragon now, Jon, but you're still much as a wolf as I am." She looped her arms around his neck, drawing his face closer to hers. "You're still a part of me, Jon Stark," she whispered against his lips, purposely using the name she knew he'd always wanted and not the surname Daenerys had insisted he take on. "And I refuse to ever lose you again."

He looked down at her silently for several moments. The potent intensity in his eyes should have belayed any trace of gentleness, but an incredible tenderness was there as well. He framed her face with warm, calloused hands, his smile shy. "Sansa, I'm not going anywhere."

Sansa smiled in return, tilting up her head to press her lips to his. Their kiss was chaste at first, and then she pressed closer, eager for more of him- more of his warmth, his gentleness, his passion. She shyly licked at his lips, seeking entrance, and when it was granted, she lost her reticence. She kissed him with abandon, stroking his tongue with hers, her hands fisting in his hair as she tugged him closer. Her new husband responded with equal fervor, hands running feverishly and restlessly over her as if unable to decide where they wanted to linger and caress. She felt wanton, wild, unabashed as she levered herself up to straddle him.

He bucked in response, grasping her hips to tug her closer until there wasn't a touch of space left between them, and she rocked her pelvis down against his, reveling in the way his fingers dug into her waist, in the way he growled as she nipped at his lower lip. She scarcely had time to acknowledge the sensuous shiver the feral sound elicited in her before he was stealing her breath with an ever headier kiss, tumbling her over onto her back.

Jon kissed and nuzzled her breasts, as their legs entwined and their hips aligned. He rolled his hips into hers, with strong, arcing undulations, and needy sounds spilled from her lips as she arched into him. Again and again, desperate and frenetic. She clawed at his back and backside, determined to have him closer. Her nails caught in the material of his small-clothes, pulling them down with such ferocity Jon had to bite back a startled yelp, only staring at her with wide eyes as he obediently wriggled out of the undergarment.

She eyed him thoughtfully, taking in trim cut of his body, the way his waist tapered into narrow hips and lower into muscular thighs, to the hardened sex resting between them. She watched his face as she wrapped her hand around him, watched the way his eyes fluttered and his lips parted as she slid her palm over the thicker base of his arousal, wrapping her fingers more firmly around him. She stroked him, taking pure feminine satisfaction in his deep, hoarse groan, his breathless chanting of her name and the way he bucked into her hand.

A sound left him that was distinct from the rest, accompanied by a wince of discomfort that had her stilling her hand immediately and staring at him in concern. She bit her lip nervously. "Jon?" she questioned, a waver audible in her voice despite her efforts, "Did I do something wrong?"

Jon was quick to reassure. "No, no," he smoothed her hair back with one hand, cupping her chin with the other to drop a quick kiss to her lips. "It's incredible, Sansa. I just..." he huffed with frustration, uncertain how to voice the difficulty to her. How did he put delicately that his discomfort was a dry chafing, and the only solution he knew when he touched himself was to spit in his palm and be done with it? Every bit of his upbringing fought against voicing something so base to her.

Sansa came to his rescue, reaching up to cup the calloused hand lingering on her chin. "Show me," she whispered, and he was sure the reverberation of those words went straight to his manhood. He was still tongue-tied, but his murmurings as she guided their joined hands to his length must have made some sense to her. She circled her thumb around the sensitive head, seeking the beads of fluid leaking from the tip. She coated her fingers and then stroked him, from base to head, liberally spreading the lubrication. She licked her lips, her gaze hooded and dark as she breathlessly repeated, "_Show me_."

He settled his hand over hers and slowly demonstrated how he liked to be touched. She found her footing soon enough, and his hand fell away, eyes fluttering closed as he lost himself to the pleasure.

There was power here, she realized, the kind of power Cersei had tried to teach her, what Petyr had meant when he referenced the politics of the bedchamber, though she was loathe to think about her mentors in the game. No, there was something purer here neither of those two would have been able to comprehend- that this man- this strong, guarded man- was surrendering himself, making no effort to restrain his pleasure or his need. He bared himself as he let her see everything in his eyes- his desire, his affection, his respect.

Yes, there was power here, power that would be balanced by Jon's assertion that their marriage would be one of equality, where Jon would share his heart, respect her mind, and bring pleasure with his touch.

Jon resembled Ned Stark in his kind and honorable nature, but their differences were proven in the fact that Jon had survived this long, and Sansa's knowledge that he must have played the game to some degree to do so. She would make a promise to him now, that he would have all of her, all of her knowledge and capabilities, to never allow him to fall victim to the game again, to never have to dirty himself again by playing.

She would protect her husband and their family in every possible way she was capable of. And to keep alive any trace of innocence left in Jon, she'd likely never tell him of it.

Desire continued to grow inside her as she watched him, the most erotic sounds she'd ever heard falling from his lips, a sensual complexity of a groan and a growl, animalistic and arousing. She began to squirm, unconsciously searching for friction, and then froze momentarily as she realized what she was doing. Another glance at Jon, his head tipped back to bare the corded muscle in his neck, the flex of his bicep as his hand clutched hard at the bedclothes, and she was unable to resist.

She smoothed her free hand down her belly and lower, dipping her fingers into the abundant wetness Jon had seemed so pleased by before. Her face burned as she ventured further, seeking the place that had brought her such pleasure when he touched her. She found it as a jolt of pure sensation shot through and a sharp gasp escaped her, causing Jon's eyes to snap open.

Gray eyes as dark and turbulent as storm-clouds burned into her, his nostrils flaring as he let them drop to her self-ministrations. His grunts grew louder and more urgent, and recalling a favorable reaction he'd displayed earlier when she had accidentally grazed against the fleshy little sacs flanking his arousal on either side, she reached over to fondle and roll one between fingers slick with her own essence. And then he was gone, hips giving a sharp lurch into her hand as he announced his release with a loud, feral growl.

He slumped back with exhaustion, flushed and panting with a relaxed, satiated grin on his face. She was just contemplating leaning in to kiss the contented curve of his mouth when he suddenly rose from the bed. He wobbled a bit, his legs still unsteady, and caught himself on the bed-frame. She cupped a hand over her mouth to smother her giggle, though her mirth must have shown by his sheepish expression when he glanced back at her.

He found his footing and crossed the room to the washbasin in the corner. He dipped a clean cloth in the lukewarm water left there and returned to the bed, proceeding to gently wipe away the remnants of his seed from her hand. Her heart warmed with the thoughtful gesture and she softly thanked him. As he turned away to toss the soiled cloth away into the clothes hamper in the corner, her eyes fell to the evidence of his earlier exertion, the beads of sweat dotting his pale skin.

Unable to help herself, she leaned down, catching a few droplets against her tongue, tracing a swath between his pectorals. He groaned throatily, shifting his weight until he was pressing her back into the mattress again. Sansa eagerly lay supine, tugging him closer and lifting her head to press her mouth to his.

Her hands skated up his sides and back, feeling the ripple and flex of the muscles as he moved to meet the roll of her hips. Her wet center slid across his thigh, her desire slick and hot against his skin, and he groaned again, rough with want, and already he could feel himself stirring, beginning to burgeon again. It was all he could do not to make the ever so slight adjustment needed to shift his body up and bury himself inside her.

But he kept his head, kissing her breast, her collarbone, sliding his knee further up the v of her thighs to gently nudge them apart. "I only want to make you feel good, Sansa. Will you let me?"

"Oh yes," she affirmed with a gasp, his mouth burning hot as he pressed it to her neck, flicking his tongue over her pulse, "Please."

His hand re-situated at the juncture of her thighs, stroking his fingers against her center. She squirmed, letting her legs fall open for him, and he gently slid a finger into her heat. She whimpered against his neck, digging her fingers into his shoulders as he stroked and caressed, adding another finger to the first in slow, rhythmic thrusts the more her body relaxed to the intrusion.

"How's it feel, love?" he whispered, to which was replied with a panted, "Wonderful," followed by a strident cry as he parted her folds with his thumb, seeking out what he knew would stimulate her pleasure. "You're so wet and hot, sweetling," he crooned as he found what he searched for, and after coaxing the little nub from its protective hood, began to stroke with gentle sweeps of his thumb in rhythm with the thrust of his fingers. "You have no idea how humbling that is, knowing it's all for me."

She was breathless, straining against him as she strove for release, nearly screaming out a protest when he suddenly pulled his hand away. She reached for him, only to have her hands lightly batted away as he gave her a wolfish grin and began to kiss down her body. She watched him with a confused, hooded gaze, eyes widening with sudden realization as he reached her navel. "Jon! Not there!" Inexperienced she may have been, but she knew what came from there, figuring she was either misreading his intentions or the madness lying dormant in his Targaryen blood had woken up.

His eyes, pupils blown with desire, took her breath away as he looked up at her. "I'll stop if you truly wish it, Sansa, but you'll like this, I swear." Sansa bit her lip hesitantly but nodded, bending her legs up at Jon's urging with her heels planted flat against the goose-down mattress. His answering smile was broad, showing off a rarely-seen dimple in his cheek. "Sweet Sansa," he whispered affectionately, turning his head to press a tender kiss to her thigh, "Just trust me."

Her startled gasp as he ran his tongue across her folds was quickly pursued by a throaty moan. He moaned as well, the vibrations only heightening her sensation, murmuring complimentary words. "You taste so sweet, lovely girl. I could spend the rest of my life with my face buried in your cunt."

She had heard such filthy words before. No one had bothered to check their language around a bastard girl like Alayne, and Harry had been one for such talk in bed. With Harry, knowing he talked to her the same he did to his whores left her feeling cheap and used, but with Jon, it was exciting, stimulating her all the more.

His words had their desired affect and Sansa rocked up into his mouth, near delirious from the pleasure as she took to begging. "Oh, Jon. Please, Jon, please!" And he happily obliged.

He cupped her backside, the move opened her further to him and he delved his tongue deeper inside her. She keened, her hands going to the back of his head to hold him in place.

His name continued to sound from her in the most delicious of ways, in gasps, moans and whimpers of praise, and every time her beautiful lips formed the syllables, it was the loveliest music to his ears. Every sound set a bolt of heat to his already straining arousal, and he groaned again with delight as the earthy musk of pure woman filled his every sense. He slid a hand to the back of one of her thighs, bracing her leg against his shoulder, and he took advantage of the angle to slip his fingers back inside her.

Her skin felt strangely tight and taut, her body hot and restless as it acted now without her consent, her hips rocking up again and again to meet the pressure and friction of his fingers and mouth. Something deep, primal and powerful was building inside her and she was helpless against it as she panted for breath, feeling the unfamiliar tension in her lower belly coiling tighter and tighter. Her arm flailed out, searching for some purchase, tears pricking her eyes as her confusion mounted levelly with her pleasure.

A strong, calloused hand grasped hers and she clung to that support. She twined their fingers, letting his solidarity anchor her as he returned his attention to the apex of her sex, wrapping his lips around the bundle of nerves there and gently suckling. He crooked his fingers, his knuckles brushing against a place inside her that made the difference as she catapulted into a powerful climax with a sharp, startled cry. Her back arched, nails and heels digging into him with a pain Jon paid no mind to as he gently stroked her through her peak, and likely would have tried to coax her into another high if she hadn't nudged him away.

She lay there afterward, the sated, boneless sensation enveloping her quite like what she thought floating might feel like, aftershocks still tingling pleasantly through her body. Jon was a comfortable weight between her legs, his head resting against her stomach. The wetness of her peak glistened against his mouth, his eyes lowered to half-mast shapes as he watched her, silently, patiently.

"Jon," she murmured, watching him raise his head with a decidedly, and deservedly, smug expression. He slowly and exaggeratedly licked his lips, a shiver coursing through her as the wickedness of it all send a bolt of heat straight to her core. "Jon, come up here."

Jon clamored up her body and kissed her, Sansa musing how the taste of herself on his tongue was sensual rather than distasteful. He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. "We can just leave it at this tonight. We don't have to do more."

She shook her head, looking up at him with clear eyes, dark with desire and free of uncertainty or hesitation. "No. I want you, Jon."

It was only now that she let herself fully acknowledge the truth in the things Randa and Mya used to whisper about, that even if there wasn't pleasure, she shouldn't feel pain every time she lay with her husband, shouldn't dread and suffer her husband's attentions. Acknowledging that meant accepting how self-serving and disregarding of her Harry had been, but now, married to this good man, this tender, attentive lover, she could accept it, and gladly move forward. And move forward she would, circling her arms around his neck and opening her legs in blatant invitation.

Jon smiled, delightedly surprised. He slipped his fingers back inside her to test her readiness, two as before, and then he worked in a third. He scissored them, spreading her further open and he sighed regretfully. "Pretty and pink and so very wet. Certain I cannot use my mouth again?"

She flushed and would have responded, cut off with a gasp when he lowered his mouth to her breast, taking the rosy tip between his teeth and gently nipping. She tugged him closer and Jon took the hint, settling between her thighs with a strange sense of belonging. He braced his arms on either side of them, and whispered a kiss against her brow. "Put your legs around me, sweetling."

Sansa obeyed, her legs moving to bracket his hips, her hips consequently rising to meet him as he reached down to align himself before he pushed forward.

She sighed softly, the feeling of him inside not at all unpleasant, especially as he shifted and his pubic bone grazed her clit. She let loose an appreciative moan, the sentiment echoed in his gasp of her name as he slid deeper into the welcoming heat of her body until he was fully seated. His heart hammered and he was dying to move, but he kept still, looking to her for reassurance she was alright.

He did not have to speak the words, she could see them in his stormy eyes, and she nodded, giving her hips an encouraging lift. He began to move, his movements growing more at ease and natural with each slow thrust as their bodies adjusted to one another.

He thrust slow but deep, the sturdy weight of him pressing the lean cant of his hips against her in all the right ways cultivating an irresistible urge to _move_. She responded to it, following his motion and rocking with him, but the change proved unsatisfying, wrong somehow, and she made a sharp sound of frustration.

Jon caught on to her dilemma, shifting to support his weight on his knees before moved his hands to her hips. "Here, lovely. Move against me, not with me. Like this. Like we were before." He demonstrated with a firm thrust, guiding her to rock her hips up to meet him. Sansa caught on quickly, recognizing the way they had ground against one another in their foreplay, and responded beautifully. Jon didn't think he'd ever appreciated just how quick a learner she was until that very moment.

"How does it feel?" he whispered, the thick husk to his voice baring it scarcely recognizable to his own ears, though it was nearly drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears.

"Good," she gasped out, "So very good." And it was, the sensation of fullness unexpectedly pleasurable, every pass of his pelvis over the crest of her sex a jolt of sensation. He tightened his hold on her hips, angling them to deepen his thrusts, and she gave a strangled moan of his name, thrilling him in the way the syllables punctuated the air with reverberations of her pleasure.

She buried her face in his shoulder and clung to him, feeling very brush of his skin, every creak of the bed-frame, every rustle of the blankets. "Jon," the whisper escaped her soft and thick with passion, "More, please." It was good, so very good, but there was an indescribable urge for _more, _and she arched into him in a needy plea.

Jon responded beautifully, quickening his pace, egged on by her breathy moans in his ear, her body writhing beneath his. "Gods, Sansa..." he found himself grunting the words as his muscles tensed and strained with every rise and fall of their bodies.

They were drowning in sensual bliss, in that same ache for release as their bodies came together again and again in some primordial alchemy, racing toward completion. Sweat beaded upon his face, dripping down his neck, and her tongue swathed along his pulse, tasting the salt of his perspiration. Her eyes were hooded and dark as they met his, mouth open and panting his name, "Jon, Jon, _Jon_!" as her hips bucked up to urge him on.

Jon groaned, his hips propelling forward hard and fast as he grew closer and closer. He kissed her throat, her breast, closing his lips around the nipple and suckling. He was close, so very close, and he crept his hand between their joined bodies, praying the more direct stimulation would warrant the response he was looking for. He rubbed curt circles with the pad of his thumb, deepened the arch of his hips, and was rewarded when her breath hitched and her back bowed, her nails scratching down his shoulders as she half-screamed, half-sobbed something resembling his name.

She spasmed and clenched around him and he was gone. A strangled call was ripped from his lips, though whether it was her name or a call to the gods, neither could have said.

-

He fell back against the feather-bed, his chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling with a dazed expression. Sansa snuggled up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder and watching her new lover with a mix of amusement and confusion. "Jon?"

"I think I've gone daft," he declared, not sounding particularly concerned as he absently stroked her side and continued to stare upward.

She raised her head in concern at that. "What?"

His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "There's plenty I know I want to say, but the words escape me. The thoughts won't come together. I'm afraid I've lost my senses."

Sansa smirked, pressing a kiss to his chin before she nestled back against his chest. "We'll have to find them, then. We will need more than your sword if we're to rebuild the North together." The mischief in her voice and a light graze of her fingers against his flaccid member let him know the double meaning on _sword_ was fully intended.

Jon chuckled, feeling wickedly amused and impossibly light. "I like the sound of that."

"What?"

"Together_._"

She traced her fingers from his pectorals downward, lingering on a long scar set between his ribs. He had so many, the claw-marks over his eye, the burns on his right hand. Clean white lines left by blades all over his torso, the puckered pink knots wrought by arrows she glimpsed earlier on his back. So many times she could have lost him before they'd ever had the chance to reunite. Too many close-calls, but each time her thoughts drifted there, she was at least able to remind herself that he had made it. They both had.

Sansa tilted her head up once more, meeting his eyes with a soft smile. "I like it, too. That's how things will be from now on. Us...together."

Jon beamed, looking more content and at peace than she could ever remember seeing him. She wondered if there had ever been a time when Jon was truly happy, a time before he knew what _bastard _meant. If there had been such a time, it would have been long ago, long enough she would have been too young to remember it.

He lifted his hand, skimming his knuckles along the curve of her cheek. "Tell me about our daughter," he said simply.

She barely had time to arch a brow at the strange possessive before he caught his mistake, visibly flustered as he looked away. "Er...I apologize, my lady. That was incredibly presumptuous."

She quickly collected herself, and shook her head. "No, don't apologize. I did say we were to do things together from now on. I just...I wasn't certain if you wanted to take on that role for Alyssa." Alyssa Arryn was the only issue born of any of Sansa's previous marriages, a sweet, precious girl of only two with her mother's Tully coloring and looks. Jon had thought the name as beautiful as the child when he first heard it, and then he had heard the Vale legend that was the girl's namesake. He admired Sansa's strength all the more afterward. "You truly want to hear about her?"

He nuzzled into her hair with a soft sigh. "Of course I do. And if it pleases you, I would be honored to be a father to any child you bring into our home."

Sansa hadn't realized it before, but those were exactly the words she wanted to hear, as she relaxed and melted into Jon's body. This wonderful, humble, giving man was hers now. Their marriage would bring him home to Winterfell, far from the poison of King's Landing. She would give him more children to cement his position and refuse any temptation the Queen may have to call him away. Children of winter, of the North, fierce, beautiful and strong. Like Robb and Arya, Bran and Rickon, had been. Like her father before them, and generations of Lords and Kings of Winter before that...Starks.

There could perhaps already be a little Stark quickening in her womb. She smiled at the thought.

She took his hand in hers, bringing them to rest over the place where she could feel his heart beat, and she began to speak.


End file.
